


The Other Way Around

by busdriver



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone is Bisexual, Feral Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, On a tentative hiatus, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, ciri has adhd, idiots to lovers, spy!jaskier, very heterosexual brothel sequence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:08:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busdriver/pseuds/busdriver
Summary: “Don’t underestimate him, witcher,” the Lord says.Geralt holds his gaze for a moment, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “I won’t,” he says, with a curt nod.After all, how difficult could it be to track down one wayward bard?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 114





	The Other Way Around

**Author's Note:**

> at this point i am fully aware every single geraskier fic has been written but I'm here to have fun and be myself so, have this.
> 
> everything i know about bards & spies i learned from dragon age, forgive me.
> 
> geralt in this is just a smidge closer to video game geralt in temperament because i Do Not respect netflix geralt
> 
> im dyslexic & apparently, incapable of using spell check before i dump this shit onto the net so forgive any typos

“You requested a witcher?” The witcher in question, stands in the doorway, arms hanging by his side.

The Lord Wilhelm, a thin shade of a man, clad in purple and yellow silks, looks up with a smirk. “No, I requested _you_. Geralt of Rivia. I have it on good authority that you are the best tracker amongst the wolves.”

“It’s been said.”

A fire hums and crackles in the hearth behind him, casting long and lazy shadows down the dining hall. Wilhelm puts his head in his hand, gestures to the chair beside him. “Come, sit, I have a proposition for you.”

As Geralt sinks into the chair, Wilhelm proffers a hand, one that Geralt merely regards and does not take.

Wilhelm retracts his hand with a tut, and lazily scratches at the scrub on his cheek. “I need you to find something for me.”

Geralt rests his arm on the table. “Is this a monster of some kind?”

“Not exactly.”

Geralt’s lips thin.“I’m not a scavenger.”

Wilhelm rolls a silver spoon between his fingers. “So I’ve been told.” He sucks his teeth. “This is something of a _delicate_ task. Patriotic, if you will,” Wilhelm continues, each word measured, cautious.

Geralt swallows a sigh. “I don’t make a habit of getting involved in the affairs of humans.”

Wilhelm nods, feigns understanding. “I’m aware of this, too. But I believe we are the same, you and I.”

Geralt stares back at him, entirely impassive.

Wilhelm shifts in his seat, stares down at the spoon in his hand, watches as his face distorts in time with the roll of his fingers. “We are two men who have run out of options. I know that you have been roving the Continent, chasing contracts, taking odd jobs, helping elderly widows plough their fields.” His eyes flick up to meet Geralt’s. “Your coin purse must be bursting.”

Geralt’s eyes darken.

“Surely that would be considered ‘getting involved in human affairs,’ even if only the most mundane ones.”

“Get the point,” Geralt says, sharply.

“The point,” Wilhelm says, jabbing his finger into the silk table runner. “Is that I am willing to give you all the coin you need in exchange for your services. A simple transaction.”

A beat of silence – the likes of which is only punctured by the soft pop and crackle of the firewood. “You need something found?”

Wilhelm’s lips thin into a smile, his eyes narrow. “Here,” he says, producing a roll of parchment from his robes, blue eyes glinting in the light. Geralt raises an eyebrow and unfurls the parchment.

It’s a death warrant masquerading as a bounty.

_Julian Alfred Pancratz – better known as the bard ‘Jaskier.’_

_Wanted for treason, espionage, murder and crimes against the Northern Realms and its people._

There’s a short and vague physical description beneath the title, one that offers little information beyond, ‘brunette,’ ‘average height,’ in possession of an elven lute.

“I’ve yet to find someone who could give me a clear description for an artists rendition,” Wilhelm says.

Geralt ignores him and lays the paper flat on the table. “Bard’s haven’t been employed as spies for decades.”

Wilhelm snorts. “Did you not just say you don’t get involved in the affairs of humans? That is merely a myth, propaganda, even. Something lords and nobles were expected to believe so bards could infiltrate our courts and balls once again. Crawl into our beds and scurry away with our secrets.” He straightens his spine, frowns at the table beneath him. “No, all I want is for you to bring this one to me, so he can atone and face the consequences for his actions.”

Geralt doesn’t bother to ponder what those actions and consequences could possibly be. Rather, he skims the bounty again. “How many men have you sent after him?” Fury seeps into the air – musky and saccharine. A scent that always catches Geralt off guard. He looks up to meet Wilhelm’s eye.

“Too many,” Wilhelm snips back. “He’s... _slippery.”_

Geralt nods in response. Then, quickly, he rolls the paper back up. “I want half the coin upfront,” he says.

The smell slips away and Wilhelm claps his hands together, face splitting into a grin. “I knew we could come to accords. I will have my wife, Iosefka, bring you the coin immediately.”

“Do you have his last known whereabouts?”

“Cintra, I believe, but that was at least a month ago. _”_ He places a grape between his teeth and bites it in half. A squirt of juice goes flying across the table.

“Right.” Geralt motions to stand, armour weighing heavy on his body.

“Don’t underestimate him, witcher,” Wilhelm says.

Geralt holds his gaze for a moment, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “I won’t,” he says, with a curt nod.

After all, how difficult could it be to track down one wayward bard?

*

It takes a week for Geralt to find him. The bard has left a trail of splinters across the continent – heaving ballads, scorned lovers, weeping wives – all of which overlay and converge on the city of Oxenfurt.

Oxenfurt’s gates loom over him as he crosses the bridge over the lake. Roach huffs and he loosens his grip on her reigns. “I agree,” he murmurs. Geralt hates Oxenfurt.

A single Redanian soldier stands guard by the gates. His helmet too big for his head, spear blunt in his lax grip. They eye each other wearily as Geralt passes.

The stables lies just beyond the gates and as he motions to dismount, a young girl bounds over to him. “Here to visit someone, Master Witcher?” she asks, raising a scabbed hand to stroke Roach’s haunch, the tattered wicker basket hanging off her arm falls heavily to one side – bouquet of daisies sticks out from the top. Roach huffs, stomps a foot and Geralt cards a soothing hand through her mane.

“Here on business,” he replies, impassive.

“The auction?” she asks, hand grazing the canvas of his saddlebag.

Geralt grunts something that sounds like a _‘no.’_

The girl furrows her brow and hums. Oxenfurt was unnerving in its vibrancy. Scores of scholars and students lined the streets and filled the taverns, all with the goal of learning. It was one of the only places on the Continent where people freely poked and prodded him without compunction or fear. It made his skin crawl.

“What’s this auction?” he asks, watching deft fingers disappear back into a dusty, yellow sleeve.

“The Van Wyk estate,” she says, “the lord passed and didn’t leave an heir, they’re selling off all his things. It’s an open event.”

Geralt nods. _An open event._ How divisive such a concept would be anywhere else except Oxenfurt. “Here,” he says, and produces three coins from his pack, dropping them into her open hand.

She beams. “Thank you, kind Sir.”

He grunts, grips Roach’s reigns as if to continue moving forward. Running his tongue across his teeth, he stops and turns back to look down at the girl. “If you’re trying to pickpocket people,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “you might consider getting a partner. And more sense. Witchers on horses are bad marks.” Her grin vanishes and a flush crawls up her neck, a pinch of fear sullies the air. But her eyes are defiant. “Your basket falls heavy to one side, too. Find somewhere to stash your loot between marks.”

Clutching the coins in a white knuckled hand, she swallows. A breeze from the surrounding river makes the ruffles on her dress dance. “I will,” she whispers.

Geralt offers her a small nod in return and presses forward into the street.

*

The Van Wyk estate towers above the Oxenfurt skyline, taller and more obnoxious in its grandiosity than even the university.

The sun kisses the horizon as he stands outside the gates. He’d opted to sniff around the estate before braving the university. A witcher at a university was be a jarring sight – but a witcher at an auction would raise less eyebrows.

The gates are pushed open, allowing for people to spill into the street smelling of wine and mirth and ostentation. A woman absently rolls her hips in time with a jaunty tune floating out from the interior, brown curls grazing her shoulders as she moves. He wonders, briefly, if perhaps he should have donned some kind of disguise or taken a bath, before attending – anything to make him less obvious.

That thought evaporates immediately as he enters spacious foyer. A stuffed drowner head greets him from a stand by the marble staircase, eyes blank. On the other side, a basilisk’s head, displayed in the same manner. Lining the walls are various paintings of monsters, in all their horrifying glory. The lord was a collector, then. Of course. Geralt’s presence wouldn't be questioned at all.

The dining hall lays to his left, expansive and excessive in its decadence. A trio of female bards stand on a podium situated against the back wall. All three of them dressed in garish clash of blue and orange silks, a minor affront to his painfully keen eyes.

More stuffed beasts stand on podiums and pillars, dotted around the space in, what Geralt can only assume was someone’s attempt at curation. No one spares him a second glance as he moves through the space. Reconnaissance. That’s what he’s here for. Nothing more, nothing less. He has no desire to speak to these people beyond inquiring about one, single bard.

At the end of the hall, one particular creature catches his eyes. His heart sinks, just a little. A Godling stares at him from the corner, grey skin perfectly preserved, wide, amber eyes completely empty. There’s a string of feathers in her hair and a fresh crown of daisies. Moving around a group of women giggling at a rock troll's exposed genitals, he comes to a stop in front of the girl and wills away the desire to slide her eyes closed. 

“Scary little things, aren’t they?” A voice to his left pierces his thoughts.

“No,” he snaps back, a little too fast, “Godlings are like children. Harmless, save for a little mischief.”

“Really?” the voice responds, “I suppose you, of all people, would know.”

Geralt turns to survey the man who is leaning up against a pillar, cool grin plastered on his face, blue eyes only slightly glazed over.

Geralt tongues a day old piece of ham between his teeth. “I suppose I would.”

The man hums, adjusts the sleeve of his blue doublet with lute calloused fingers. “’S not often witchers come to noble auctions.” The mans perfume is pungent. Cedar and lemongrass. Underscored by the scent of ginger wine, the wine that’s staining his teeth and clinging to the air. There’s no fear, no consternation, just a touch of arousal. Geralt wrinkles his nose.

“Not a normal auction,” Geralt snips back, the leather of his armour creaking as he leans back against the wall.

“Yes,” the man says, taking a short sip of his wine, “I guess that’s true.”

Blue eyes. Brown hair. A lute player. He raises an eyebrow. There had to be hundreds of bards blue eyed and brunette bards in Oxenfurt. 

The bard appears short, cut off by matching silk trousers, high-waisted and gaudy. It’s a trick. A decisive choice to appear less imposing.

In that moment, Geralt does something he’s never done before – he extends his hand for a handshake. “Geralt,” he offers, shortly.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up and he switches his wine glass from one hand to the other before squeezing Geralt’s hand in turn. “Jaskier,” he says.

It couldn't be this easy. He hadn't even been forced to make small talk yet. 

"Rough business, _witchering,"_ Jaskier says, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. 

Geralt remains silent. He's never been in a position like this before. He’s never hunted humans for coin. It was fine to discuss the concept as a nebulous _idea_ , something he could _potentially_ do, but to be face to face with someone he was supposed to capture, to drag kicking and screaming to an inevitable demise – it went against everything he knew.

Jaskier sighs, pushes off the pillar and places the glass of wine down next to the Godling. “You know, I was always told witchers were amoral - uninterested in the political affiliations of men and such.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

Geralt catches the glint of the knife a second before Jaskier throws it, moving his head a fraction to the left before it his the marble wall. The Bard’s movements were deft, _skilled,_ he’d give him that. He hadn’t noticed the knife, or any disturbance in the bards cultivated affect.

“Well then,” Jaskier says, licking his lips. They stare at each other for a long moment. Still no fear. “You know, it’s not a noble affair without a knife fight, right?”

The piece of ham between Geralt’s teeth dislodges. He cocks his head.

“Wilhelm sent you, yes?” Jaskier says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt says.

Jaskier scoffs. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t try anything in a room full of people.”

No, he wouldn’t. But despite his reservations and despite the enforced amorality that witchers were supposed to adhere to – he still finds a bubble of desperation rising in his throat. He needs this coin.

Surreptitiously, he raises a hand, moves his fingers and quickly casts _Axii._ The bards eyes glaze over completely, he sways on his feet. “Come with me,” Geralt whispers and Jaskier nods. He walks them cautiously through the dining hall, back towards the foyer. _Axii_ didn’t last forever, he had maybe fifteen minutes to walk them back to Roach and begin riding. He needed to take the bard with him now as Oxenfurt was on the river and Jaskier could be on a boat to Skellegie within the hour if he let him go.

They weave through groups of people as Geralt leads them towards the gates and just as he's about to exit into the street -

“Witcher!” One of the female bards bounds over to them, the feather on her troubadour’s hat bouncing in time with her step. “A witcher!” she cries, “apologies for the interruption, but please hear me out.”

Geralt tenses, eyes darting around. He has to leave, _quickly._ “I can’t help you.”

“ _Please,_ ” she begs, “my mother’s farm in White Orchard has been overrun by nekkers, please I have coin. I’ve put up notices everywhere and no one has come.” She lays a hand on his forearm and he stares at the offending hand.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Oh.” She pulls her hand back as though she’s been burned. “Apologies.”

He steals a fevered glance behind him and his face falls. _Jaskier is gone._ Geralt spins around just in time to catch a flash of blue silk as Jaskier scales the estates bricked perimeter.

“Fuck,” Geralt hisses. _Axii_ didn’t wear off that quickly, it wasn’t possible. No average human could break a witchers spell with such ease.

“ _Leave him be,”_ the woman hisses. He doesn’t spare her a second glance before racing to the estates gate. Inelegantly, he weaves through crowds of people, shoving them out the way. Jaskier’s scent is still strong, carrying him through the Oxenfurt streets.

Jaskier is fast, sure footed. He clearly knows his way around the backstreets. Geralt however, is just as fast, just as sure footed, he doesn’t know the streets as well but he could follow a rat through a sewer – and this was easier.

Geralt reaches the square in the northern part of the city and the scent spikes. Pausing for a moment, he surveys his surroundings. A pair of cloaked men converse in hushed tones near the message board. A soldier dozes on a seat. A street vendor lazily skims a book under flickering torchlight. A shape on the floor catches his eye. It’s only slightly obscured by shadow, laying in the dirt near the path to the northern gate. The sole of a boot.

Geralt sucks in a breath. The bard’s gait would be thrown off. He couldn’t run forever.

Moving further into the square, he follows the thread, all of his senses sharp and focused on that one smell. The vendor stop reading to regard him with a frown as he passes. There’s an alley behind her, shrouded completely in shadow. A shape moves in the dark. He doesn’t reach for his sword, instead, he unsheaths a thin, steel dagger.

Slowly, he moves into the alleyway, poised, prepared.

‘ _Don’t underestimate him.’_

At the estate, there had been no been no indication of magic, no hum from his medallion. Something wasn’t right.

“Jaskier?” he says, licking his lips.

The figure doubles over and promptly vomits onto the cobble stones below. Geralt grabs them by the shoulder, forcing them to turn around. A pale face stares back at him, eyes wide, the scruff of his beard flecked with vomit. “Wha-”

A body lands on Geralt’s back, arms tight around his throat, thighs squeezing his sides. A blade licks his chin. He drops his dagger. Jaskier had come out of nowhere. Never in his life has he been _jumped_ like this.

“You’re a shit spy,” Geralt grits out, tugging at the bards arms. “Your perfumes too strong.”

“ _Not a spy_ _,”_ Jaskier hisses in his ear.

The man squeals and sprints back into the square. Jaskier jerks his hand upwards, but Geralt catches the blade with his teeth – just in time. Jaskier snarls and Geralt takes the opportunity to flip him over onto his back. Recovering quickly, Jaskier scrambles to his feet, producing another dagger from his sleeve with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt says, raising his hands in front of him.

“That isn’t the impression you’re giving off, witcher,” he spits back, eyes fierce, body tense. A bead of sweat slides down his throat.

“How did you do that?” Geralt says, voice low.

“Do what?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. He doesn’t get a chance to respond as Jaskier lunges at him. He dodges the thrust easily, and catches Jaskier’s wrist before flipping him back onto the floor. Without hesitation this time, he pins the bards arms down with his knees. A strand of white hair slides off his shoulders to tickle Jaskier’s cheek. “You should invest in better boots,” he murmurs.

Jaskier grins up at him, bares his teeth. He brings his knee up to slam into Geralt’s crotch. Nothing happens. “Ah, well. That is a mighty fine codpiece you must have there, my friend. Or are you just happy to see me?” His voice shoots up an octave as Geralt hauls him off the ground. Producing a length of rope, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrists and hastily ties them together. Jaskier watches him the entire timex. “And how do you intend to get me out of Oxenfurt, hm?” he asks, tilting his head to smirk at Geralt, “I won’t go quietly and none of the guards here will just let you leave, innocent captive in tow.”

Geralt grunts. Jaskier was right. He’d done this on purpose. Roach was stabled at the southern gate and they’d have to pass by a small army at the northern gates.

“You didn’t think this through at all, did you? A witcher with no sense?” Jaskier tuts. “May as well be a dead witcher.”

“I have a bounty.”

“An independent bounty, unrecognised by the crown,” he points out, “it holds no weight here.” Sighing, he rolls his neck to stare up at the sky. “You may as well let me go now.”

One of the cloaked men from the square passes the alley, casting a stray glance into its depths. “That’s not how bounties work,” Geralt says. He raises his hand again, draws the first line of _Axii._ Jaskier deftly catches his finger in his bound hands.

“Out of ideas?” he mocks, raising his eyebrows.

Geralt growls, snatches his finger away.

Jaskier in turn, raises his wrists expectantly. “Make your choice now, witcher.”

Geralt stares down at the bards wrists, at thin and lute calloused fingers. And something else catches his eye. Jaskier is standing atop a manhole, one that leads into the winding maze of sewers beneath the city. It’s his turn to tut, to cock his head in condescension. “A spy with no sense?”

“It’s _sealed off._ I’m no _fool,”_ Jaskier hisses, “I know this city like the back of my hand.”

Geralt grabs his doublet and pulls him out the way, and Jaskier drags his feet in kind. Geralt casts a focused wave of _Aard_ and the cover flies away, crashing against one of the bordering brick walls.

Jaskier clears his throat, gaze flicking between Geralt and the open hole beneath them. “Well,” he says, “that certainly complicates things, now doesn’t it?” Geralt frowns and Jaskier grins, flashing a row of white teeth – before turning and running back towards the square.

Naturally, he doesn’t get far. Geralt catches him by the collar of his shirt and drags him back.

“ _Help! I’m being-”_ Geralt cuts him off by pulling him into a headlock. “ _Fuck off.”_ Jaskier slaps and claws at Geralt’s arms. “I’m not going down there!”

Geralt’s grip is strong and he wrestles them both to the manhole. He doesn’t bother to wrangle the ladder, instead he opts to drop straight down into the murky depths below, casting _Quen_ just before they both hit the ground. Jaskier stumbles backwards, catching himself on the sewer wall.

“Plenty of monsters down here,” Geralt says, “it would be unwise to go running off.”

Jaskier scoffs and kicks some of the sewer water in Geralt’s direction. “Still have to get past the gate,” he says, in a sing song voice.

Geralt grabs him by the collar again and shoves him forward. “Walk.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.”

Keeping on hand on Jaskier’s back, Geralt produces a Cat potion from his pocket, uncorking it with his teeth and swallowing it one fluid motion. Not a single torch lights the Oxenfurt sewers – something he could use to his advantage.

Mere minutes pass before Jaskier begins belting sea shanties at the top of his lungs, stopping occasionally to allow his echo to sing back to him.

“ _Be quiet,”_ Geralt hisses.

Jaskier ignores him and bursts into a filthy tavern song.

They walk like that for what feels like a small lifetime, his senses alight and overwhelmed by the stench of sewage and Jaskier’s endless, grating singing. And when he thinks he might just have to throttle the bard – a light appears at the end of the tunnel, coupled with a soft breeze and the sound of water splashing against the river bank.

“Moonlit stroll?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shoves him forward.

“Alright, alright.”

Stepping onto the river bank, Geralt quickly surveys the shore. Drowners and waterhags were known to frequent these parts – and these were two things he didn’t have time for.

“Mater Witcher!” Geralt whirls around, a spike of adrenaline coursing through him. A young girl rises from a nearby bush – tattered wicker basket in hand. The girl from the gates.

“ _Hey,”_ Jaskier says, lurching forward.

“Don’t look at him,” Geralt says, pulling Jaskier back. “He’s a...Siren....”

The girls mouth falls open. _“No,”_ Jaskier says.

“He’ll beguile you,” Geralt adds, quickly, “are you able to do me a favour?”

She lowers her gaze and nods at the ground.

“My horse is stabled by the southern gate, can you bring her here?”

Her lip quivers as she nods once more.

“Hey, no, _no._ He’s lying to you. I’m a _bard._ I sing _songs I-”_

Geralt shakes his head. “Ignore him.”

“Cenhelm is asleep, Master witcher,” she whispers, “hurry up to the gate, I will meet you at the end of the bridge with your hose.” Balling her skirt in her fist, she drops her basket in the bush and hurries off.

“Wait, _no!”_ Jaskier calls after her. “Melitele’s... _arse.”_

It had been all too easy after that. The girl had been right, the only soldier manning the gate had been fast asleep with his chin tucked into his chest. A heavy sleeper, thankfully, as he remains asleep through Jaskier’s pleading and yelling all the way across the bridge. The girl waits for them there, hands shaking, eyes planted firmly on the ground.

“Thank you, you’ve done well here,” Geralt says, “look after yourself.”

“There’s a bag of sugar cubes in your pack, Sir,” she says, “I didn’t steal anything, either.” With that she turns, and races across the bridge.

Jaskier sighs, stares forward into the night, shoulders low. “Orphaned pickpockets make you a bleeding heart, then?”

“Shut up.”

*

“You know, I’ve had far more compassionate captors in the past,” Jaskier says, eyeing Roach’s saddle sourly. “There was a woman who once carried me all the way from Dorian to Novigrad. I’ve never felt so small and simultaneously, so safe, enveloped in her strong embrace. I imagine that’s how kittens feel when being carried by their mothers. She reminds me a lot of you. All brusque and _rough_.”

They’d been walking for an hour or so, and Jaskier had managed to muse and complain the entire time, waxing poetic about how cruel Geralt was. It was a five day trek on foot and the bard was already trying Geralt’s last nerve. “I’m not going to carry you,” he says.

“Can you at least do _something?”_ Jaskier kicks away a pebble on the ground with his soleless boot. “I can’t walk like this all night.”

“We’ll set up camp in an hour.”

“ _Or,”_ Jaskier says, “if my memory serves, there’s an inn not far from here.”

Geralt turns to scrutinse Jaskier, who merely shrugs his shoulders – blue eyes twinkling in the thin moonlight. “There’s no inn near here,” he says.

Jaskier nods. “There is. If we turn left on the upcoming fork there is one.”

“That’s not an inn, bard.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Fine, you caught me, it’s a brothel. _But_ I would like to have sex at least one more time before I am to be _hanged._ Which, I would like you to know, is all your fault, by the way.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. “No.”

“A brothel, one night. You can chaperone. You can _join in_ if you want, I don’t care.” He throws his arms out to the side, exasperated. Arms that were, not five minutes ago, snuggly tied together.

Geralt tilts his head upward, watches as a cloud lazily meanders across the sky. A sigh, deep and world weary, escapes his chest. “How did you do that?”

Jaskier shrugs in his periphery. “Do you care?”

Geralt considers for a moment. “How many daggers are you carrying?”

“Don’t take this one from me, it’s sentimental. _And_ we’ve already established I can’t run, or fight you,” Jasker says, “alas, I am to be corralled like a sheep to the slaughter. Paraded across the Continent, denied the a last meal, denied one final indulgence.” He throws an arm over his face.

“I’d never deny you a final meal,” Geralt replies, flatly.

“Oh, well then, thank the Gods for small mercies. What do witchers even eat, anyway? Cockatrice innards? Ghoul brains?”

“No.”

Jaskier huffs, and a wave of frustration rolls off him. “We could say you’re my bodyguard.”

“No.”

“I won’t _say_ anything.”

“ _No.”_

“Heartless beast,” Jaskier murmurs, “this is my death wish and you will ignore me, in my time of _need.”_

The fork in the road that Jaskier had mentioned comes into view. Turning right would get them to Lord Wilhelm’s estate faster, _but -_ “If we go to the brothel will you be quiet?”

Jaskier nods. “Absolutely. You won’t hear a peep out of me until you earn the pleasure of hearing my death rattle.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, “I’ll take you to a brothel.”

*

_The Wet Wick._

Geralt wrinkles his nose at the signpost hammered into the ground.

“It’s a very classy establishment, I assure you,” Jaskier says, the tip of his tongue sticks out from his lips as he offers a Geralt a coquettish grin.

“I doubt that.”

“Well,” Jaskier says, “see for yourself.” He pushes the door open and Geralt’s eyes are assaulted by pastel pink tavern area. Pink, velvet tapestries line the walls, pink chairs are pushed into pink tables, a woman wearing pink small clothes dances unenthusiastically on a pink podium against the back wall.

“Classy,” Geralt echoes.

“The allure and sexuality of femininity,” Jaskier muses with a shrug, “I’m quite partial to it.”

“Jaskier,” the woman behind the bar drawls and Geralt tenses. She steps out from behind the bar, the red velvet of her dress incongruous against the endless pinks of the surrounding walls, while her black curls lay in stylish disarray on her shoulders. Geralt knows a Madame when he sees one.

“You know this woman?” he whispers, lip quirked in irritation.

“Relax,” Jaskier whispers back, “I won’t say anything, and if I do, do your,” he makes a motion that Geralt interprets as an attempt at _Axii,_ “y’know.”

“Jaskier,” he warns, but he’s cut of by Jaskier bowing deeply in front of the woman, a chain around his neck slips from underneath his doublet and almost hits the wooden floor.

“Rosalinda! You are looking ravishing, as per usual.”

Rosalinda hums softly, and comes to stand in front of them both. “It’s been a while since your last visit.” She extends a wrinkled hand, with swollen knuckles and bent fingers.

Jaskier takes it in his and kisses her flesh. “Only a very short year.”

Her plum lips curl into a warm smile and she catches Geralt’s eye. “And who are you?”

“He’s my body guard,” Jaskier says, “you know a famous bard like me has plenty of threats against his life.”

“Of course, you poor thing,” she says, laying a hand flat against her abdomen. “Johanna is working tonight, I know she’s a personal favourite of yours.” She sniffs. “Shall I fetch her?”

He cocks his head. Pretends to consider. “Surprise me,” he says.

She offers a short nod. “Last room on the left, Jaskier,” she says, gesturing to the stairs.

Jaskier all but bounds up the stairs, and when they reach the landing Geralt slaps a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Who will be paying for this?”

“ _You,”_ Jaskier says, jabbing a finger into Geralt’s chest. “All of my coin is still in Oxenfurt, which you dragged me away from in order to walk me to the gallows.”

“Will you-”

“Stop?” Jaskier snaps, “no. You’re making this choice, you can live with the consequences.” He turns away and takes a step down the hallway. “If it’s eating you up so much, you still have the option to walk away.”

Jaskier’s words burrow into Geralt’s sternum. But he ignores the way his stomach clenches. He’s out of options, out of time. This is his last resort.

He keeps moving.

They reach the room and Jaskier flops down onto the bed. Arms splayed out beside him, his hair falls away from his forehead and he closes his eyes. “You can still leave, y’know.”

“Not a chance.”

“Anyone else might get the wrong idea,” Jaskier says, opening one eye to squint at Geralt – who merely scowls back.

“Anyone else would be a fool to let you out of their sight.”

“True,” Jaskier chuckles, letting his eyes slide closed again. “I hope she sends two girls, I think I deserve it.”

Silence falls over them as Geralt kneels on the floor. He intends to meditate – clear the turbulent plains of his mind for the rest of the night. He won’t be getting much sleep over the coming days.

Soft footsteps come to a halt outside their door, a whisper of breath as the door opens. Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes, stupid grin still on his face. Rose scented perfume wafts off the man who walks through the door. Nausea coils in Geralt’s gut. The man is all sharp lines, high cheekbones, clear blue eyes.

His eyes meet Geralt’s and he frowns. “Didn’t know you entertained cuckholds now, Dandelion,” he says with a Skelligen lilt.

“Hm?” Jaskier looks up. “Oh.” He waves a hand. “That’s my bodyguard. He’s very dedicated to his job, you know how it is, Cillian.”

They’re on a first name basis. Or a pet name basis. They’ve fucked before.

“Right,” Cillian says, running a hand through his damp curls. Geralt’s medallion thrums. Reaching for his sword he stands, eyes locked on the man before him.

Cillian rolls his eyes in turn and waggles his fingers. A gold ring sits on his pinkie finger. “A glamour, witcher.” He reaches for it, lifts it off his finger just an inch. His eyes become even bluer as he does, a pair of elegant, pointed ears jut out from his curls. “Happy?”

Geralt lowers his hand, slowly returns to his kneeling position.

“Had one of you boys in here not six months ago, with the same hang-ups,” he says, sliding the ring back onto his finger.

“A witcher?” Geralt asks and his voice sounds clumsy in his ears.

Cillian nods. “Don’t ask me who, I didn’t catch a name.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Witchers and their proclivities. What a world we live in.” A cold hand squeezes Geralt’s stomach.

Cillian runs a hand over the pink bedsheet. “Speaking of proclivities.”

Jaskier chuckles.

“How do you want me?” Cillian asks, coming to sit on the bed beside Jaskier.

“However _you_ want, _me minne.”_

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Cillian says, swatting half-heartedly at Jaskier’s arm. Throwing a leg over Jaskier’s body, he straddles the bard, and tugs his shirt off in a fluid motion.

Geralt promptly closes his eyes, reaches for the silent and empty plains of his mind. Generally, he sinks into this space with ease, but today, a persistent ache in his gut keeps him just on the surface and disappointed, green eyes stare at him from the dark. 

He swallows, shifts in his position.

_“You always wear the most obnoxious clothes, Dandelion.”_

Voices pierces the surface of his mind and he furrows his brow, wills them away.

_“You know I like the thrill of being undressed.”_

He focuses on the rising and falling of his chest – the expansion of his stomach.

“ _Maybe I’ll put that silver tongue of yours to good use.”_

This had been a terrible idea.

_“I’d fall to my knees for you whenever you ask.”_

Geralt’s eyes snap open. His mouth goes dry. Jaskier turns his head and their eyes meet. A flush crawls up Jaskier’s neck. Cillian works open mouthed kisses down his chest and Geralt is rooted to the spot. Jaskier’s mouth falls open and a long moan escapes his glistening lips. He’s staring at Geralt and Geralt is staring back.

The door bursts open. And despite all his training, years of honing his instincts and a body, _a mind,_ designed to quash feeling – Geralt jumps. Reflex kicks in and his unsheaths his sword in the split second it takes for a woman to rush towards him. He casts _Aard_ just in time to send her flying backwards into the hallway. There’s a quip on his tongue, but it slips back down his throat as Cillian stands and flings a ball of energy at him. He steps out the way just as it hits the wall, leaving a gaping, simmering hole in its wake.

His medallion thrums against his chest incessantly. The glamour was a decoy. Jaskier is sitting up with his head in his hand - merely observing with casual fascination. 

‘ _Don’t underestimate him.’_

He should have known.

A wave of energy knocks him sideways. He loses his footing and as he looks down, a portal opens beneath his feet. He claws at the armoire to the side of him, but it topples over, falls into the darkness with him. He falls, feet first into the black ocean below, looking up just in time to see the portal close behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> jaskier is just 20 daggers in a trench coat


End file.
